


From Where We Came

by sockablock



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, But also some happy parts so, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Party Backstory, Warmage Caleb theory, amnesiac molly, bloodhunters be wild, mild fantasy racism, my poor poor purple son, nobody in this party is heterosexual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-14 15:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14139288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sockablock/pseuds/sockablock
Summary: Before the Mighty Nein can meet in Trostenweald, before they can travel to Zadash and fight hyenas and burn bandits and join rebellions, they'll have to begin somewhere. Here are the humble roots of the seven (nein?) adventurers that would one day take the continents of Exandria by storm.





	1. Jester

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 1 featuring Jester, next up will be Caleb!

Jester sits in her room, alone.

Out the western bay window, she can see ships and boats bobbing on the gleaming waves of what Mother calls the Lucidian Ocean. Mother knows the names of everything, even the things that Jester has never heard of before. Sometimes, when Mother comes to visit, she lets Jester climb into her lap and together, they name everything they can see in Jester’s view of Nicodranas. The huge domed building is the temple of the Storm Lord. That winding path is the Silver Road. That little store with the thatched roof and smoking chimney is the Menagerie Coast Pastry Shop. Jester has tried the deserts from there many times; when she is good, Mother will bring her their doughnuts and cakes, as well as gifts from a place called “the beach.” There are many good things to find on the beach, according to Mother, especially during her long walks with the people that like to come and take her away from the house. Jester’s bureau sports a growing assortment of these presents: giant clam shells or spiraling conches or obsidian mussels or bone-white starfish. She loves collecting the things Mother brings, and hopes one day, she can walk along the sand and find them herself.

Until that happens, though, Jester will settle for giggling from up, up in her room, out the window at beautiful carriages and the tiny shapes of sailors and merchants in the distance. She wonders if all people are so tiny like these, and if she and her Mother are the only big people there are. She will have to ask Mother this, when she comes to visit again.

\------------------

“This one is you,” says Jester, “see your dress? I mixed the red and the blue paint for that color. Do you like it?”

Mother lowers the hairbrush and peers over Jester’s horns. “That’s very pretty, dear,” she says. “But what is that shape behind us?”

“Oh, that’s Father!” Jester says cheerfully. “Except I’m not sure what he looks like, so I just drew it sort of blurry, and then you could pretend it’s him.”

Mother sets the brush down. “Why don’t you hang on to this drawing, dear? You could use some art in your bedroom.”

Jester’s brow furrows as she looks around the room. There are pictures tacked up along the walls and on the wardrobe and scattered across her desk. “Are you…sure? I have an awful lot already.”

She tries to lean around to see her mother’s face, but the older woman has already gotten up and is heading toward the door. Before she leaves, she turns to Jester and says, “Keep it, dear. If you hang it up here, I can come into your room to see you and your art at the same time. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“…of course, Mother.”

Later, Jester will think long and hard about the expression that had fixed itself on Mother’s face. It had been a smile, she thinks, but not quite.

\------------------

Tonight, she can hear Mother singing through the wall. She is not sure how to describe it. The song feels like satin sheets, like slowly twirling candlelight, like the sound of a petal falling, and the draw of a warm summer night. It is the most beautiful sound that Jester has ever heard.

Strangely, though, there is something else there too. Almost…almost an afterthought of sadness. Like the lilt of emptiness. Or the knowledge that this time is the last. For Jester, it feels like the door to her room being closed.

\------------------

Sometimes, even when she promises, Mother won't come see her for a very, very long time.

This happens more as Jester gets older. Mother will stop in every two days, or three, or four or five or six, and when she does come in, it’s only for a little bit. She will ask if Jester needs anything, if Jester would like some desserts, if Jester wants new books or if she needs more paints. And then the door will close, and she will leave, and Jester will sit in her room alone.

\------------------

There’s a little sliding part in the wall between Jester’s room and Mother’s. She is not allowed to open it by herself, for reasons she does not understand, but every day at morning and at night, a meal is pushed through. Jester does not know who brings it to her. She catches glimpse of them sometimes, only their hands, but that is enough to send Jester’s imagination spinning. Their skin is not the same color as Mother’s or as Jester’s, but a sort of odd peach. Their fingers are more wrinkly than Mother's, and look much more weathered. Jester spends a lot of time wondering about who they belong to.

But Mother forbade her from speaking to the other person, so Jester obeys. She always listens to what Mother says.

Mother also says that she is in charge of keeping the room clean. Mother calls this a “responsibility,” and acts like there’s some kind of big importance to the menial nature of straightening out the blankets and fluffing the pillows and picking up her toys and pushing the wastebasket out every week. That’s the only time Jester gets a glimpse of whatever it is that’s beyond her walls. Mother drills into her head that she must first listen for movement outside, or voices, and if nobody is there, _then_ she is allowed to crack open the door and slide the basket through. Mother usually brings it back when she checks up on Jester the next morning, although sometimes she forgets, or sometimes it takes her a while to visit again. And if Jester is bothered by the little pile of wrinkled papers or soiled napkins or everyday scraps that occasionally accumulate by her desk, she does not show it. She doesn’t want Mother to think that anything is wrong, or Mother might get angry and stop visiting. Jester does not want that to happen.

\------------------

Books with pictures are important to Jester. She does not know what an eagle looks like, since one has never flown past her window before. She isn’t sure what a chandelier should be, since her room is only lit by glowing lanterns at night. She’s never seen a horse as more than a tiny dot weaving through the streets.

And though she does not know this, Jester would not even be able to say what a human would look like. Or a half-elf. Or orc, or halfling, or full elf or dwarf or dog or cat or snake or bird or butterfly or beetle or worm or— 

Sometimes Jester will prop open a drawing next to the mirror, and try and imagine herself like one of the creatures from the pages. Would her horns be gone, then? Would her ears point like this? Would her arms be shorter and would her skin be cream-colored? 

Of course, it’s not nearly enough. There are so many other questions. What kind of warmth does the sunlight shed? What kind of caress does the wind bring? What sort of kisses does the rain give? What does the grass whisper? What does the sea sing? Jester does not know. The world outside is stories from Mother and scratchings in books and the slow, distant crawl of the tiny world behind window. 

She wants to go outside. She wants to go outside. _She wants to go outside._

\------------------

Jester gets older. Mother starts making sure she keeps up with her studies, even if they’re about boring things like math and science and history. Their rare times together are filled with Mother listing off her spelling mistakes or tutting at her arithmetic errors or sighing when Jester hits a wrong note.

She misses the _fun_. There’s only so much entertainment that drawing the same city skyline can bring, even if she changes up the color of the sky and adds sparkling, rainbow-colored dragons soaring overhead. Sometimes she’ll throw all her blankets onto the floor and roll around on them. Sometimes she’ll rearrange the books on her shelves, and then take them all down and then rearrange them again. Sometimes she tosses her owlbear into the air and catches him again. Sometimes she runs around the room and hides under the bed and presses her face against the glass of the window. But she never, ever makes a sound. That is the worst thing Jester can do, and Mother gets _very_ angry when she does. 

When she does, it hurts. And mother yells and rages at her for being too loud, too disruptive, it’s dangerous if anybody hears Jester, then Mother can’t do her work and she can’t have any clients and _Jester, you’re being ungrateful and you’re being a pain and I’m going to have to spend more time away from you to make up for this and you’ll have to be alone. If you keep it up, you might have to be alone for a long time. A very, very long time. that what you want, Jester? Do you want me to go away forever?_

_No._

_Then you must be quiet,_ she will say with steely eyes. _Nobody can know you are here._

\------------------

Jester does not like the men and ladies she can hear wandering through their home. They get to listen to Mother sing in person more than Jester does. They get to go to Mother’s fancy parties, and Jester imagines they can wear the fanciest of clothes and have the nicest of jewels and come and go whenever they please. And they love Mother, they love her so much. Often, Jester is worried that Mother loves them too. And that one day she will decide to go away with them, instead of staying here in the house.

Jester hates them. 

But Mother insists that they are very nice people, and more than that, they give her all the money that lets Jester have nice things. And Jester—whose entire life is a smiling Mother who brings her beautiful dresses and lacy ribbons and shiny rings and silk sheets and a glittering inkwell and lovely toys and the huge bay window and one, gorgeous room—understands. 

And continues to make no sound.

\------------------

Now, every time Mother comes to see her, every time, Jester will ask the same question.

“When can I go outside the room?”

“One day. When you’re older. Don’t worry so much, dear.”

\------------------

When the food tray comes, Jester takes a deep breath and prays that Mother will not hear about this and says, to the pair of hands that slide the panel open, “Hello! What is your name? My name is Jester. How are you?”

There’s a sharp inhale of breath. Then the tray is pushed through and the panel slammed shut.

And, unfortunately, Mother does hear about it.

\------------------

This story has a very interesting plot. It’s about a young girl with beautiful golden hair who’s locked away in a tower by a horrible witch. One day, a man in shining armor comes and she lets her hair down and he climbs his way into the tower. Then together, they escape, and the girl is free and they live happily ever after.

Jester reads it many, many times.

\------------------

She can hear Mother laughing through the walls, thick and sturdy as they are. There is another voice in the bedroom. It says something in a low voice, which makes Mother laugh the harder. Then there is only breathing, sporadic and shallow and loud. There are other sounds. Jester knows them all already. She puts her pillow over her head, mindful of her horns, and tries to go to sleep.

\------------------

Jester is much older. Or she thinks she is, anyways, but Mother still gives her the same nonchalant answer. So finally, she decides that tonight will be the night she leaves her room. It’s a hard decision for Jester, who is terrified of ruining things for her and Mother, but she can hear singing next door, a song about a young girl lost at sea. This means that Mother is singing to only one person, and will be busy all night. It’s the perfect chance.

She squeezes stuffed animals beneath her blanket in a tiefling-shaped bundle. Then she moves to the wardrobe. She knows, from things that Mother says sometimes, that not everybody will be alright with her horns and her tail. They are jealous, she assumes, but she is wise enough to know that jealousy can be a dangerous thing. So she pulls her nicest blue cloak over her head, and tucks her tail into her skirt even though it’s kind of uncomfortable. She slips on some brown boots and ties her little pouch onto her belt.

She snuffs out her candle, and closes the door gently. 

The first thing she sees is a hallway, with plush carpets that are deep and red. There are strange figures lining the walls, white and grey and Jester figures that these must be statues. She wants to stand and admire them. Maybe whip out a pen and add to the artwork. There are paintings hanging too, gorgeous all and little cards mounted beside them announce what they are of, and who made them. Jester wants to stop and read every one.

But she did not come here to stare at pictures. She has been doing that already for all her life. She sees a drop in the railing, and stairs beyond that. She makes her way over.

 

The second layer of the house is more confusion. More art, some plants, tables and chairs and cabinets full of plates. Even with her darkvision, it’s hard to see anything clearly in the low light. Besides, that’s still not what she wants. Eventually, moving as silently as possible, she sees a large, _large_ door. The golden dial-lock on it makes a faint click. The handle turns.

Jester slips out into the night.

\------------------

The first hour had been wonderful, better than anything she could ever have dreamed up herself. The glowing strings of lights between the colorful buildings had looked like stars, and there were people—huge, tall people!—milling about and laughing and smiling at every corner. Some were human, some had the pointy ears that meant they were elves, and some of the shorter ones Jester figured were halflings. Or dwarves. She wasn’t sure how to tell the difference, there.

The sun was gone, so she couldn’t scratch that off the list, but the moon shone brightly overhead, which made Jester feel warm on the inside for some reason. The breeze felt incredible. The air could be alive! And the cobbled path under her feet felt more solid than carpet ever would. She skipped down the streets, ignoring those who gave her strange glances, and carried on her merry way.

At some point, she bought a doughnut off a man who looked very confused about the five gold she had paid him. She was told by a nice lady that her dress was pretty. She had stopped and smelled huge red flowers growing by the side of a building, and had watched golden birds flit across the evening sky. A nice stranger in a long cloak like hers pointed her towards “the beach” when she asked, and she skipped along under the faint warm glow of the streetlights, until she got there.

It went wrong, so very wrong, when she a merchant saw her leaning over his cart. She had thought it would be _funny_ if she mixed around the trinkets and shiny baubles that were just lying there, not doing anything! She wasn’t stealing, she was just trying to cheer him up! But the man, hornless and tail-less, had not believed her. She could remember the anger in his eyes, the way he called her “little devil,” and the fear that churned in her chest when he picked up a large wooden stick from behind his stall and started moving closer. For a moment, his tangled black hair was beautiful deep red curls and his clenched teeth were pointed and the stick was a candlestick and Mother was very, very angry with Jester and she didn’t mean to do it, I just tripped in her room and please, Mother, I promise I’ll be good I’m sorry I’ll be quiet—

—and now Jester refuses to let a sound escape her. Her cloak is lying on the bed, ripped. It had gotten caught on something as she was running back to her room, from the scary man and his scary friends and something else pounding in her tired little heart.

She wants to try and comfort herself with a song, but knows that if she wakes anybody up next door, Mother really will be angry with her. She can never know that Jester had been outside her room, let alone outside the house. So Jester buries her face into a stuffed owlbear and shakes in the quiet.

And then a warm hand gently touches her on the shoulder. She almost flinches away, hard, but the gesture is so comforting and so peaceful that she finds herself relaxing slightly.

And then she hears a voice, lilting and calm, echoing in the back of her mind.

_What a dick he was, eh?_

She looks around, holding the owlbear close to her chest. “…hello?” She whispers as quietly as she dares.

_Hello, Jester._

Her voice is barely a breath on the wind. “How do you know my name?”

_I know a lot of things. I am a god._

Growing excitement makes her voice quiver. “A god?” she asks. “Like the Storm Lord or the Dawnfather or the Annoying Mistress or the—”

She breaks off when the stranger starts chuckling. _Oh, that’s a good one. I’ll remember that one. No, I’m not a god like they are._ And before Jester can get disappointed the voice says, _I’m a different kind of god. I’m not looking for servants or worshippers. I’m just looking for a friend. And you seem to be someone who might also want a friend._

Jester’s eyes widen. “I do!” she says just a little bit louder than she intended, “I want one really badly. Will you be mine? I have lots of toys and books that we can share, and oh, I can tell you all about today! It was very, very cool, mostly.”

 _I’d like that,_ says the voice.

“What should I call you, if we’re going to be friends?”

_How about…the Traveler?_

Jester beams, though she still isn’t quite sure where to look. “It is very nice to meet you, the Traveler,” she says quietly. “Would you like to hear about the flowers I saw today?”

 _Why don’t you show me?_ A soft breeze stirs through the room, and a little, leather-bound sketchbook that had been lying on Jester’s desk briefly flies open. A charcoal stick rolls off a nearby shelf, and bumps into it.

 _I hear you’re a very good artist,_ says the Traveler.

“I am!” Jester whispers excitedly.

She rushes over to the desk, dragging a cushioned stool to the space on her right so her new friend can watch her draw. And as her charcoal darts across the blank pages, for the first time in a very, very long time, Jester sits in her room. And she is not alone.

\------------------

“And then he _died!_ ” Jester says, waving her hands in the air. “Just like that! And he was the main guy, too!”

The Traveler makes a sound of surprise that isn’t entirely surprised. 

“I know!” says Jester, not noticing that last part.

_And then what happened?_

“Well, that was the end of the book. But you won’t believe who comes back in the second book!”

_I think I might have a guess. But why don’t you tell me anyways?_

“Oh, I’m going to.”

\------------------

“What do you look like?” Jester asks. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, of course, I was just wondering,” she hastily amends.

 _Would you really like to see?_ asks the Traveler. _Because, if you really want to, I can show you._

“Oh, yes! Yes, I really would.”

That night, Jester dreams about a tall figure in a verdant cloak. It’s not exactly what she was hoping for, but it’s amazing all the same. She does notice their forest-green eyes; it’s like peering into the woods and seeing the trees blink back at you. Perhaps unsettling to some, but Jester has no fear of the unknown. It’s all unknown to her, anyways.

\------------------

“You might look good in purple,” Jester suggests. “Oh, and with some pretty bows on your sleeves!”

There’s a disembodied chuckle. _Maybe, but I think green is just my color. Don’t you?_

\------------------

_Hey, isn’t it stuffy in here?_

Jester thinks for a moment. “It’s always like this,” she says.

_Right, but why don’t we go and get some fresh air? I know some great places._

Jester bites her lip tentatively. “Um…I know I’ve been outside before, and it was really cool, but it was also a little bit scary. I’m not sure if I want to go back for the scary parts.”

There’s a brief silence, and Jester is suddenly afraid she’s said something to make the Traveler mad. She’s very afraid that they’re so mad they won’t talk to her anymore. 

But then the Traveler says, _What if I gave you a way to protect yourself?_

Then she would go outside, Jester reasons. Then she wouldn’t have any reason to be afraid.

\------------------

_You’re a tiefling, yes?_

“Yes.”

Your kind has some pretty incredible innate abilities that you can use for defense and offence. Hasn’t your mother ever told you about them before?

“No. Not ever, actually.”

_Well, this is called ‘Thaumaturgy.’ It’s good for distractions, and a good place to start, I think._

\------------------

Jester learns it. She also learns that she’s resistant to some types of damage, that she can use magic for calling down fire and for healing herself and for hurting the people that hurt her first.

\------------------

_Do you want to try going outside?_

“I don’t know. I mean, I really, really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I’m still a little scared. It’s just…it’s just that I know I can do magic, but it’s different than holding a sword or having a dagger even though I don’t know how to use those. It’s just nice to hang onto something, and magic is words buried in my brain.”

Brief silence. Then, _I think I know what you’re talking about. Why don’t you go to sleep tonight, and maybe check under your pillow in the morning. But don’t look until then. You need to have faith for this to work. Do you have faith?_

“Oh, yes, I do!”

_You have faith in me?_

“Yes! Absolutely, yes.”

_Then in the morning, alright? Not until the morning._

\------------------

_Ready to go?_

Jester shrugs her cloak on and steels herself. “Ready.”

\------------------

The moonlight still feels calming when it washes over her. The cobbles still feel solid. The breeze still tickles pleasantly, and the doughnut-man actually looks rather excited to see her. And if anybody gives her any odd glances, and if soldiers shoot her undeserved glares, she mentally recites the sounds of her spells and grounds herself with the metal circle hanging around her waist. She likes to rub her thumb around the edges and think about the Traveler. And whenever she calls out, they answer.

Mother notices when Jester stops asking about going outside. She clearly isn’t sure what caused the change, but it’s a relief all the same. She was getting rather tired of Jester’s pestering. And if Jester doesn’t seem as desperate for her attention anymore or as needy as she used to be, Mother doesn’t mind. In fact, she’s delighted. The girl has finally grown out of her childish inclinations.

\------------------

Jester reaches a hand out, but her fingers pass through the other girl.

_It’s only an illusion, I’m afraid. But it’ll give you somebody to talk to even if I’m not around._

“I love it! I love it so, so much!”

\------------------

The shopkeeper stares at her in confusion. “Didn’t I just see you come in? You did a loop and then left, didn’t you?”

Jester stifles a giggle. “Nope, not at all.” Then she flicks her wrist, and her illusion walks straight through the door and silently stands next to the man. Jester gives him a friendly wave and turns to leave. Just as she exits she hears a scuffling sound as he turns, and laughs at his sharp shout of surprise and startled, “What the _hell?!_ ”

\------------------

“And then they fall in love! Isn’t that so beautiful? Oh, I love this book.”

_It’s quite a tale._

“I still think the guard should have been the one to fall in love with him. They had so much chemistry!”

_Sometimes love works in odd ways, doesn’t it?_

Jester considers this. “Yes,” she agrees. “Like how Mother says she loves me, that’s sort of odd, isn’t it?”

_Yes, it is._

“Don’t worry. It doesn’t bother me anymore. I have you, instead!”

\------------------

The Traveler is always with her. Even when they are busy and don’t answer right away, even when they spend a few hours doing other things and even when they suddenly drop a conversation, Jester has faith that they are still there. That they are still listening. And that when they say they will be back, and when they say that Jester can tell them anything she wants, they mean it. They really, really mean it.

\------------------

_Oh, are we sneaking out again, tonight?_

Jester slings her coat onto her back and pulls her satchel off the bed. “You bet,” she says. “There was a very uppity-looking lady at the tavern last time, and I think she could use some fun.”

_I always like the way you think, Jester._

\------------------

Mother still comes around. Once in a while. But now the infrequency of her visits and strange layer of awkward ice between them does not matter at all.

\------------------

“I’ve got a new idea for a prank,” declares Jester.

_Oh? And who might this one be featuring?_

“You know that guy Mother is seeing now? Lord Robert something something?”

_There’s a delighted laugh. Oh, yes. I know him._

“Well, get ready, because that disguise spell you taught me is really going to get some use tomorrow.”

\------------------

Jester packs in a frenzy. There are clothes strewn across the room and her travel sack is already half-full and there’s not enough time to get all her things, all her things

“Hurry, Jester! They’ll be here any minute!” Mother says. “You need to hurry!”

“I know, I know, I am! I am, I really am!”

Her mother sighs deeply. “Yes, yes I know. But please, go faster.”

\------------------

“ _Why_ would you do that?”

Jester bites her lip. “He deserved it,” she says.

Her mother does not argue this. “But now you can never come back to Nicodranas.”

“I can find somewhere to go. Maybe I will find Father.”

A barrage of emotions mars her Mother’s face for just a moment. “Maybe. Be safe, Jester. I do not like you leaving now.”

Jester could say something about how all she ever wanted was to leave. About how she is sure that Mother did not want her in the house in the first place. Something about how running away is better than being locked away. But she does not. Instead, she hugs her mother and lets the fingers run through her hair one last time. 

“I love you, Jester.”

“I love you too, Mother.”

\------------------

This story has a very interesting plot. It’s about a young girl with navy hair who’s locked away for a very long time. One day, a voice creeps into her mind and she does something to a man in a girdle and she lets her Mother down. Eventually, she escapes, though not at all in the way she’d think.

Jester did not expect this story.

\------------------

She sits atop her new horse. “I lied,” she says to the air. “I don’t know where to go.”

_And what about that other part?_

Jester does not answer. Instead, “Traveler, where should we go?”

_Maybe head down to Port Damali. There’s all sorts there. That might be a good place to start._

She nods. “Alright!” Then she takes a deep breath and pushes a smile to the front. “Port Damali awaits! A new adventure for me and you!”

_Indeed._

The sun brings a soft sort of warmth. The wind caresses her hair, and in the distance the sea sings of a new day. The world around her moves, and her horse’s hooves clop against the firm cobbles of a well-traveled path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Come chat with me about the new campaign (or old) at sailorfjord.tumblr.com!


	2. Caleb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the chapter for sad magic man, next time is Fjord! (Kudos to those who get the not-at-all-subtle Patrick Rofthuss reference)

Caleb cannot sleep.

There are exactly four hours until sunrise, though for the life of him he can’t figure out how he knows this. He also doesn’t understand why random details from the day keep playing themselves out over and over and over in his mind with excruciating accuracy. The specific pattern of clouds that danced over the fields this morning. A raven’s sporadic cries in the afternoon. His little sister’s freckles and brother’s skinned knees. His mother’s sad smile as she told them, again, that tonight would be cabbage stew and water from the well.

Caleb shoves his face into the straw mattress. His head pounds, he can’t form thoughts anymore, and now his brain is going to explode with anything and everything from a month’s worth of experiences—the barking of a dog and hard mud underfoot and rough grains and falling rain and the rust on the well-pump and—

His weak bedframe sinks with the weight of another. He feels his mother’s worn hand rubbing circles on his back. His focus immediately sharpens to the sensation, and he finds that he can think again.

“Are you alright, love?” His mother whispers. “You looked like you were having a nightmare.”

Unsure of how to respond, he just nods.

“Don’t worry,” she moves to hold him close. “It’s alright. I’m here now.”

Caleb does not understand what just happened. But with his mother by his side, his breath evens out and eventually, he falls asleep.

\--------------------

The barrage of memories never ends, but over the course of a sleep-light week Caleb learns to push them into his subconscious, just below his surface thoughts. He figures out how to pull them back out, and between the repetitive chores that farm work brings, he can let his mind wander into the past as his hands take over. His parents note that he’s much more efficient than before, though more prone to daydreaming. That isn’t exactly what he’s doing, but he agrees.

About a month after this, a visitor comes to their farm. Caleb thinks he is the most boring man he has ever seen, and the most incredibly fascinating man he has ever met.

His name is Ben, he’s as thin as a rail, carries a frayed, dirty-looking sack, and wears an old brown cloak.

Ben is a wizard and was actually brought to the farm by Caleb’s father, who found the man passed out on the edge of the fields. Given his overall appearance, and the way the war had ravaged the Zemni Fields, it was probably from hunger. And despite their own meager pickings, his parents are too selfless to pass over someone in need.

Caleb gives up his bed for the stranger to recover on. Mother and Father work too hard to sleep on the floor, and the twins are too little to have to forfeit theirs. Caleb is perfectly happy with relocating to a pile of old clothes in a different section of the sleeping room, especially if it means that the wizard will stay with them longer.

Ben speaks Zemnian surprisingly well for a foreigner, so once he recovers enough to withstand it, Caleb peppers him endlessly with questions. Where was he from? Where was he going? Why was he travelling? Why was he here? Why was he alone? Did he have a family? A wife? Children? What was his last name?

Ben is frustratingly cryptic with his responses to these questions. He was from neither here nor there, heading to nowhere in particular. His family was some ways away, and the empire was very big, wasn’t it? He was here because Caleb’s father brought him here, and he was alone because nobody else was with him. Needless to say, a young and inquisitive Caleb is not satisfied with these answers.

What he does find boundless delight with are Ben’s explanations of magic.

“Magic is a living idea,” says Ben one evening after cabbage soup had been eaten and chores had been done. The two of them were walking along the edge of the barley fields, the older man waving his hands in the air as he spoke, and Caleb bouncing with excitement. 

“It exists naturally on the Prime Material Plane—that’s where our world is—and is fed by the beings and forces that fill the other planes. Some creatures in our world are attuned to this magic, and can use it to—yes, Caleb?”

“When you say ‘some creatures,’ does that include people?”

Ben smiles at this. “Well, yes, and no. I was _mostly_ talking about things like dragons and the like. But there _are_ some people called ‘sorcerers,’ that can harness the arcane arts through their blood.”

“Ew,” says Caleb.

“I mean, they inherit it. The way you got blue eyes and red hair.”

“But you said you’re a wizard,” Caleb frowns, “not a sorcerer.”

Ben nods. “Astute as ever, young man,” and Caleb preens. “I—and I suspect the same is true of you and your lovely family—was not fortunate enough to have magic come to me just like that. I had to learn it through schooling. Though if you ask me,” and he leans in closer to the boy, “that just means I understand it much better than those sorcerers. And I can learn as many spells as I want.”

Caleb opens his mouth to respond, but before he can Ben suddenly winks and says, offhandedly, “I think I’ll stay here a few more days. And, if your parents’ hospitality lasts that long and you can convince them to agree, perhaps they might allow me to teach you a couple spells.”

Caleb’s eyes go wide. “I’ll convince them,” he promises.

Ben is an evocation specialist, and so after three days of learning basic theory, copying text into a little parchment-book that Ben fashions for him, practicing the movements, and memorizing the words (which only takes seconds, to Ben’s immediate interest), Caleb learns the evocation cantrips _Dancing Lights_ and _Firebolt._ His parents are supportive, if confused, by their son’s new hobby. They gratefully accept _Dancing Lights_ as their new alternative to going blind at night due to a lack of candle-money, but also tell him, somewhat sternly, that they will not tolerate another Firebolt accident that close to their home. Ben and Caleb both apologize profusely.

Eventually, after the best five days of Caleb’s life, Ben informs the family that it’s time for him to move on. The twins are disappointed that the weird dirty man won’t be around to pester anymore. The parents are sad (though a small part of them, the budget-strained part, is relieved) that Caleb’s teacher is leaving. Caleb is devastated.

“I have so much more I can _learn,_ though!” He cries into Ben’s cloak. “And I think you’re really cool and I don’t want you to go.”

Ben pats him on the head as Caleb’s father pulls the boy off of him. “Don’t you worry, young man. I’m sure you’ll discover plenty on your own.”

Caleb never sees Ben ever again, but he will never, ever forget him. And that night when he finds a frankly ridiculous amount of incense, charcoal, and herbs, alongside directions for a spell called _Find Familiar_ shoved under his bed, Caleb gasps with amazement and gratitude. There’s a note along with the components that reads:

_I know I never taught you this one, but you’ve a Keen Mind. You’ll figure it out._

There’s no signature. There doesn’t need to be one.

Caleb names his scraggly new cat “Frumpkin,” and reassures his parents that Frumpkin does not need to be fed (though he sneaks parts of his meager dinner to the magical tabby anyways). The twins absolutely love this new addition to their family, and Caleb sleeps with the cat near his head every night. Sometimes, when the barrage of memories gets overwhelming, he strokes his new friend’s fur until he falls asleep.

\--------------------

Many years pass, and the Empire seeks out soldiers to fight along the borders of Xhorhas.

“The devils of those lands are threatening the peace of our people,” says the recruiter who passes through Caleb’s sleepy town and stops to talk to the now-older boy as he moves sacks of grain into a cart. “If you’re interested in joining up, or if you know of anybody who wants to, come down to the Weathered Flagon after lunch. I’ll have the sign-up there. It’s a great life in the army.” He looks up and down, not very subtly, at Caleb’s disheveled appearance. “You can make something of yourself,” he says.

Caleb bids his tearful but proud family farewell. He tells the twins to be good. He promises his parents he’ll write frequently, and silently promises himself that every copper he earns will go back to them.

The recruiter is taken aback when, in this dirt-filled peasant town, a young boy in a scraggly tunic signs up with penmanship neater than a captain’s. When he recites his oath flawlessly. When, as the surprised recruiter asks for special skills, the boy flicks his wrist and his hand bursts into flame. He is enlisted as a warmage. He is sent on his way to Xhorhas.

Private Widogast immediately proves an asset. Along with the other warmages, he effortlessly launches balls of fire into enemy lines. He illuminates the night sky with crackling flames. He counts victories in the distant sounds of screams, and knows he is protecting his people. What his sergeant really finds impressive, though, is the way Widogast can send a cat, or sparrow, or bat, unsuspected into an enemy camp, and relay back the racial makeup of the enemy soldiers, their numbers, their supplies, the presence of commanders, their weapons and spellcasters, even their plans on occasion. And Widogast himself, with his ability to cast _Detect Magic_ and _Disguise Self,_ and his perfect, perfect memory, ensures an almost permanent tactical advantage in the field. He excels. He starts getting invited to strategy meetings. He takes point in formations. He teaches others his skills. And, after a little while, he meets a fellow private whose hands are warm and whose chest is firm and whose breath is sweet. He is loved by his friends. He is honored by the sergeant. For the first time in his life, he is important.

Caleb knows that his is a ridiculously dangerous job, but it’s also necessary to ensure the protection and continued prosperity of the empire that has always done so much for him. He has seen his fellow soldiers lay down their lives for the Crown, and he finds honor in that. He thinks of all the people he is saving, his fellow countrymen, every time he sends a Xhorhastian up in flames. Besides, he makes more money than he has ever seen in his entire life. On Paydays, he likes to sit in his tent and count out each coin by candlelight, imagining his parents’ faces when they get the money. The things they could buy! They could hire more help, fix the roof, afford new beds, get stone (stone!) floors, send the twins to schools! He is Making Something of Himself, as his father would say, helping the empire and helping his family at the same time.

\--------------------

Lieutenant-Commander Widogast of the 47th Regiment of the Army of his Majesty King Bertrand Dwendal, Crown of the Empire, cuts a striking figure as he walks slowly on the dirt path of a nowhere town in the eastern Zemni Fields. He is nowhere near the top of the command chain, but he has climbed the ranks incredibly quickly for someone as young as he, especially someone who never attended the academy. His superiors have hinted, however, that should he keep this up it could be arranged for him to spend some time at Soultress, reading and learning spells to his heart’s desire. He hangs onto that promise like a lifeline. The book he does have, a hard-earned leather tome he purchased in a small town, is admittedly sparse, and anxious with pages to be filled. _Soon,_ Caleb thinks. _Soon._

For now, though, he marches towards his childhood home, somewhat self-conscious of the crimson robes he’s wearing. Warmages are always extravagantly dressed, so the enemy knows which ones to fear, and their fellow soldiers know which ones to protect. But the gold thread, golden buttons, and shining lieutenant-commander insignia blazing on his breast pocket make him stand out even more against the dusty backdrop of his hometown. He is here for a week’s leave, before his unit gets sent to a special mission, led by a general. He doesn’t know the details yet, but he is honored to have been chosen. 

His parents cry when they see him. They are so, so proud. He cries when he sees that they all are wearing nicer clothing. The floors are indeed stone now, rather than the hard-packed dirt of before, and his parents finally got a new bed for themselves. They gush over his uniform, and marvel at his rank. The twins are older now, no longer small children, but still delight over Frumpkin (A sparrow, at the moment. Not preferred, but better for recon.) who chirrups happily at them. There are a few books in the corner of the bedroom. They are eating meat. Caleb has done a magnificent job, they tell him, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

\--------------------

The new posting, rather than being on enemy land, is actually within the empire. It’s in a small mining town called Coalbend, close to the border and in a diverse region that the General says is suspected of colluding with Xhorhas. People living here are apparently unhappy with the tithe the empire requires to ensure their safety. Caleb’s unit is tasked with going door to door, seeking out information and searching homes for hints of suspicious activity. They are to start in this town and work their way north from there. Caleb and his men enter every single house and search the rooms thoroughly. Nobody is left untouched, especially given the severity of the accusation that hangs over Coalbend: _treason._

The citizens do not take kindly to their intrusion, and despite Caleb’s loyalty to the empire, he can understand why. Still, when a group of angry villagers storm up to their camp demanding answers for why they’re being accused, Caleb and his men do as they’re told and imprison the intruders. Then they march into the town square, and the General orders them to make the captives kneel before the town.

“Your fellow townsfolk were caught infiltrating our camp to send information to the enemy,” says the General and Caleb’s stomach turns because _wait, that isn’t what happened._

“They have intruded on an encampment of the King’s Army, and therefore have shown themselves to be traitors to the crown.”

The crowd murmurs at this, and Caleb notes that though the majority of those gathered are human, there is a significant number of tieflings, half-orcs, and others of the less common races in the north. But many of these multicolored faces suddenly pale when the General unsheathes his sword—a beautiful, unstained, overly ornate thing—and points it towards the closest prisoner. “The punishment for treason, of course, is death,” he says.

The crowd’s whispering grows louder and a few of the craftier ones in the back start trying to sneak away, back into their homes. Then the General sheathes his sword and looks at the town amicably.

“I know there are more of you,” he says. “Come forward now, and you and your co-conspirators will simply be imprisoned, rather than executed. I imagine most of you would prefer being spared a gruesome death, no?”

A minute passes. Caleb’s heart is pounding against his ribcage, and he can’t help but hope that there really are real traitors out there in the panicking crowd.

“Lieutenant-Commander,” barks the General, and a terrible silence hits the town square. “Incinerate this man.”

Caleb balks, and whips around to face his superior. “I-Excuse me, sir?”

“Incinerate this man, Lieutenant-Commander. And once you finish with him, you and your soldiers will set this town on fire. Traitors to the crown will not be tolerated. We need to make an impression on these treasonous idiots.”

“I can’t do that!” Caleb protests. Behind him, people are running back to their homes now. But the heavy footfalls and sharp shouts of their frantic retreat is drowned out by the blood rushing past Caleb’s ears. “I can’t just _burn_ him!”

The General gives him a look, and then breaks into guffawing laughter. “Of course you can! You’re a _warmage,_ boy, and one with a spotless record. You’ve been setting soldiers on fire since you enlisted. You’re just closer-up. That’s all.”

Caleb lowers his voice. “But that man is innocent, General. You know this. They came to us to express their opinions—”

The General shakes his head and shakes off Caleb’s concerns. “These are just peasants, son. They don’t have opinions. Especially not about what the empire should be doing, and especially not about what _I_ should be doing. Now execute this man.” He leans in closer to Caleb. “Disobeying orders is a crime in the eyes of the crown, Lieutenant-Commander. And the crown knows everything there is to know about you.”

_I can find out where your family lives,_ was not said. It didn’t need to be. 

Caleb watches the kneeling man in front of him scream and writhe as the flames slowly burn away every inch of his flesh. It takes too long, much too long, but eventually a charred husk of a person falls to the ground before Caleb’s feet. He can feel the image being burned into his mind. The smell makes him want to retch. He has done this before, he tells himself. He has done this before, but never like this.

 _Every time_ has been like this. He just didn’t see it happening.

And as people scream and try to run for cover, and as his regiment unleashes firebolt after firebolt into what used to be the town of Coalbend, as the General claps him on the back at a job well done, Caleb understands.

Now he really knows why warmages are treated so well, why they’re so coveted, why they’re dressed the way they are and why they were called specifically for this task. The General wans to beat this region into submission, whether there are innocents here or not. And what would leave a more terrifying impression than soldiers who can reduce entire towns to ash with a simple wave of their hands? Warmages wear their flame-red coats so the enemy knows which ones to fear.

\--------------------

That night, Caleb cannot sleep. There are exactly four hours until sunrise, and he feels like he’s choking on ashes.

He sits up in his cot. He has his own space, a luxury afforded to him because of his rank. He throws on his ostentatious coat because it’s the only thing he has, but he rips the lieutenant’s insignia off of his chest. He throws his boots on, grabs his component pouch and spell book, then slips out of his tent and towards the woods.

At the first chance he gets, he throws himself into a muddy riverbank to hide the glimmer on his clothing, his scent, as many facial features as he can. He considers tossing the insignia into the river, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to get rid of it. Instead, Caleb swears to himself that he will never, _never_ do anything for the empire again. He makes a silent, desperate apology to his family, and prays to every god he can think of for them not to be punished for his insubordination. _I’m sorry,_ he thinks. _I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry for failing you._ Then he carefully scoops up his book, pulls on his coat, and disappears into the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Check me out at sailorfjord.tumblr.com!


	3. Fjord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand, here we go! Chapter 3, featuring Fjord! Next up will be Beauregard, stay tuned for more angsty backstories to come.

Fjord’s father had been a sailor on the _Eastern Albatross_ , a merchant vessel that carried goods (legal and otherwise) across the Lucidian Ocean. It was during one of these trips where, in stroke of fate, he met an orcish woman sent by her tribe into the city to gather supplies. Coastal trading regions were always home to a mix of races, but the sight of a female orc trying to buy ale (in bulk) from a street vendor was a rare one. Fjord’s father had originally stopped to watch for the novelty value, but was surprised by her beauty, her fearlessness, the way she wore her pride on her sleeve and—after a few drinks—the way she could pick people up by their necks and use them to split tables in half.

They fell in love. How she ever found a companion in a random human sailor, Fjord’s father will never know. But for just over half a glorious year, the pair tore through the streets of the unsuspecting city, laughing and fighting and drinking and loving. They found the unique, immeasurable kind of happiness that only kindred spirits do. And after a while, when she had to return to a tribe that would not accept a tiny human man and tinier half-human baby, Fjord’s father had understood. He bid her a sorrowful goodbye and, despite the risk, carried his newborn boy back across the sea. Fjord survived, and with that so did his father's heart.

Now he works as a shipbuilder. Until the day his son is old enough to sail at his side, he continues to combine his love of the sea with his skills in carpentry, and wait. Baby Fjord, meanwhile, turns Damali Shipwrights into his own personal playground. To the delight of his father, the young burly laborers and wiry old architects are surprisingly enamored by the little green menace. They fondly keep an eye on Fjord, who spends his days entertaining himself with the random materials scattered around the shipyard before he can even speak. He likes the jangly sounds that iron screws make when he throws them against each other. He wears scraps of linen and hemp like oversized cloaks. He trips over loose hammers and chews on metal fixings and slaps his paint-covered hands onto any and every unmoving surface.

But the best times are when his father hoists him up into the air, and little Fjord can stare, unobstructed, at the massive, half-finished skeleton of the _Midnight Breeze_ , with her bones of teak and skin of cedar, who rests in the shipyard like a slumbering whale in a dry channel.

Fjord is too young to understand what, but something about the sleeping vessel calls to him.

As he gets older, his father starts bringing him onto some of the nearly-finished ships. Here is where the anchor goes, here is where the sailors sleep. Here is how the sails will move, and here is this is where the captain steers. This is starboard. This is port. These are the knots we’ll need to tie.

Sometimes, after dinner, in their ramshackle home in the back-alleys of the Magnolia District of Port Damali, Fjord’s father will pull out maps and charts and graphs and tools. This is a compass. There is the ocean. That one’s the north star. See this, here, son? This is where we live.

“What’s all this stuff over here?” Fjord asks one night.

“Oh, that’s the Empire,” his father shrugs. “It’s all just land and mountains and the like, you don't need to bother with it. Look here in the east. At the sea, Fjord. That’s where our life is going to be.”

When he isn’t being showered with nautical knowledge, Fjord gets kicked out of the construction zone for being too distracting and asking too many questions. His father is apologetic, but he knows that as much as Fjord would love to learn more about sailing, there’s also plenty for his son to do out in the city.

He is right. At eight years old, the half-orc boy wreaks absolute havoc in Merchant’s Alley. Fjord learns which buildings are abandoned, and which windows open up right above the fruit stalls and cheese carts. His father impresses into him the severity of punishment that comes with stealing jewelry and money from vendors and patrons, but asks no questions when Fjord slams an entire wheel of goat cheese onto their table one night. He loves running across rooftops (luckily never has any serious injuries) and chases his fellow street-running kids around the worn paths of the cluttered port city. Some of them look like his father, and a couple look like him. Still more look absolutely nothing like either of them, and some are so tiny they only come up to his knee despite his comparatively childish stature. None of them ask questions. Neither does he. They’re just kids.

Fjord loves the games come up with together. But even more than that, he loves the days when—in excited solitude—he climbs up on top of the oil-flame lampposts, or scrambles onto the sunny rooftops, and gazes out past the buildings of Port Damali and to the sparkling sea. One day, he and his father will helm a ship they build together and sail to lands far beyond these. They’ll meet strange and fascinating people. They’ll have incredible adventures. They’ll explore uncharted waters. Maybe, one day, they’ll find his mother again.

\-------------------- 

He dies in a shipyard accident. Unsecured ropes, they say. Fell and broke his neck, they say. At least it didn’t hurt. At least it was quick. Couldn’t have felt a thing. It was unexpected. Unremarkable. At the funeral, his son doesn’t cry.

\-------------------- 

“So you live here alone?” Asks the half-elven boy as Fjord fumbles with the front door.

They push their way inside. “Yeah, it’s just me,” Fjord says. 

They fall together, and Fjord takes him by the hand and into his room. A warm breeze blows in through the thin curtains. The moon shines.

\--------------------

They walk away from the docks and awkwardly stand in silence for a moment behind a wall of crates.

“Look, I don’t think you should come around here anymore. The guys are starting to talk.”

“But, but what does that matter?” Fjord pleads. “Who cares what they think? We can still spend time together." 

The half-elf looks him over. “Sorry, Fjord. But I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

It happens again. And again. _I’m sorry, I’m not really looking for a relationship, per say. You’re quite nice, but I don’t think it’ll work out. Look, I’m sorry, but we’re just so different. Hey, no sweat, I’m sure you’ll find somebody more…like yourself._ There are other people too, some of them the kids he grew up with running through the streets. They throw out names, toss around insults, jab at him with slurs. The ones that don’t know him well enough pity what they think is his poor, human mother, taken advantage of by a monster. Some of the ones that do know his story sneer at his father. _There must have been something really fucked in his head. Wanting to bed down with an orc? Disgusting._

Fjord decides he has had enough. He does something, one day. It doesn’t change anything about his green skin or awkward build, but it does make him feel better. Sometimes.

\-------------------- 

Now Fjord works as a dockhand for a shipping company, offloading cargo from the merchant ships that stop in Damali. He isn’t the strongest, nor the most dexterous, but he has the endurance of a bear and an unmistakable charm that instantly endears him to the rest of the crew. A couple years of heavy labor have helped him grow into his build, and he’s gotten better at fighting back.

He also has a knack for setting people at ease. He isn’t quite sure how it works, exactly, but he thinks of it as just finding things in common with others and starting from there.

One night, as they’re relaxing after a long day of physical labor, one of the other dockhands points out just how far the commonalities go. “Ever notice,” she says between a swig of ale, “how you sometimes copy my accent?”

Fjord pauses and arches an eyebrow. “Do I? I’ve never been to the Marrow Valley before. It can’t be very good.”

“Actually,” another chimes in, “it’s pretty spot-on. You do mine too if I talk to you for long enough.”

Fjord looks pensively into his whiskey. “Really?” He asks. “Well, I’m sorry if it’s creepy or anything. “

“Nah, nah, it’s just something I noticed,” says the first. “I think It’s pretty cool. Hey, if this dockworker thing doesn’t pan out you could always join a circus.” 

Fjord starts paying attention to passers-by. You could call it people-watching, you could call it “honing your craft.” He treats it—whatever this skill is—like a craft, making mental notes about verbal inflections and occasionally echoing strangers’ words to try and get the cadence right. Sometimes he speaks to others in their own particular dialects, getting flustered when they ask if he’s from _so-and-so-town_ when he absolutely isn’t. Sometimes he spends whole days wearing new accents just because. Sometimes, when he gets bored, he sings sea shanties and assigns each stanza a different speech pattern.

With his new pastime, with the old maps and stories his father left him, with his friends he makes at the docks and with the casual romances he grows used to, life isn’t bad. But every once in a while, he’ll catch himself staring towards the horizon with longing laced in his smile. The water still calls to him. And yet, every time he thinks about signing up with a passing ship and never looking back, something about the old shipyard and the little clay-walled home in the Magnolia District holds him back. Even more than that, he remembers the promise that one day he and his father will sail across the ocean together. Taking to sea alone would feel like a betrayal.

And then one night, Fjord is at his usual dive, peaceably sitting by himself at a table in the corner and doing some, ah, character study.

The wrong kind of person notices him looking their way. The wrong kind of person has friends.

“Is something the matter?” Fjord asks when a group of people block him on his way to get another drink.

“Yeah, somethin's the matter.” A stocky human man, probably only a few years older than Fjord, jabs a finger in front of Fjord’s face. “I don’t appreciate the way ya keep lookin’ at me.”

Fjord gently brushes the finger away, which only seems to make thing worse. “I apologize,” he says evenly, “and I assure you it won’t happen again.”

“Ya hear that, boys?” The man turns and grins at his motley assortment of followers. “It won’t ‘appen again.” His eyes flicker over Fjord’s appearance, the way he’s dressed and the sea-tangled shape of his hair. “You a sailor, then?”

Fjord is surprised by this new line of questioning. “I’m a dockhand,” he says.

The man’s grin gets big. He leans in, so close that Fjord can smell beer and something sour on the man’s breath. “In that case,” he says, “I’m gonna make _sure_ it doesn’t happen again, you half-breed piece of shite.”

Fjord’s eyes narrow. His fist clenches under the table. “Care to repeat that?” He whispers.

The man takes an exaggerated step back and says, mockingly, “Ooooh, the big bad half-breed’s throwin’ out threats now, is he? Don’t get so defensive! It’s not my fault some orc fucked ‘yer mother and she got stuck with you.”

Fjord’s chair clatters to the ground. He’s only a few inches taller than the man, but it’s enough. “ _Ma_ was the orc,” he says with teeth bared, “and don’t feel sorry for _her_ when _your_ mother was stuck with _you_.”

Fjord isn’t the strongest, or the most dexterous, but he has the endurance of a bear and also a heavy pair of brass knuckles in his pocket. He isn't an idiot. He spent his whole childhood running through these streets and fighting off bastards like these. 

Later on, as he lies in his modest cot and nurses a black eye, he can’t help but think through his confusion. Why had the man asked if he was a sailor?

Work goes on as usual. On his lunch break, he goes and gets a fish sandwich from a nearby stall. Afterwards, he and his friends make fun of each other for stupid things.

When he gets back home, the front door is in splinters. His father’s maps and charts are in tatters. There are smashed bowls scattered across the stone floor, the chairs are ruined and his modest cot has a long, ragged tear through it, like someone had taken a dagger to the mattress. The lock on the only other room in the house is smashed. Fjord notes that the heavy iron safe is untouched, but there is ink splattered over the now-shredded blueprints and sketches that sat, untouched for years, on the little desk by the window. There are tools lying around haphazardly. The sextant is dented. The telescope is smashed.

Fjord finds the compass, miraculously unscathed, under the bed. He hadn’t cried when his father died, but now, amid the wreckage of his childhood home, he holds the compass to his chest and sobs and sobs until the tears stop coming and his lungs ache.

Hours later, he realizes. Not a sailor means no crew. No crew means no protection. Nobody watching his back. No captain that’s gonna come asking questions.

Fjord’s fellow dockhands are good people. But they’re not the ride-or-die, you-hurt-one-you-hurt-all sort of folk that will want to get revenge the way a group of insulted sailors will. And one of them, the halfling, certainly didn’t think anything was amiss when a group of guys came ‘round the docks asking about a half-orc with a scar over his eye. Not uncommon, but apparently not common enough to avoid getting singled out. 

The next morning, he finds a sturdy-looking ship with a well-mannered crew. Though he’s only ever been to sea once, thanks to his father he knows all there is to know about hoisting sails and sweeping decks and tying knots and living on the water. He can read. He can cook. He can navigate, which might come in handy. He knows how to fix ships, which will definitely come in handy. And he’s got an unmistakable charm that instantly endears him to the rest of the crew. Fjord comes aboard, toting a sack of everything he had left that the world had spared, including his own compass.

Something in him rejoices. This is what he was always meant to do. And though he never quite shakes the feeling that there’s somebody missing by his side, no palm on his shoulder or hand tousling his hair, life isn’t bad. He is finally at sea. He is happy.

\-------------------- 

He is drowning. He can’t hold out much longer. The ship had pulled him down, impossibly away from the surface. In all his years of learning, and then his years of sailing, it’s stupidly ironic he never learned that sinking ships will drag the sailors down if they’re too close. Not that it matters. It happened too quickly for anybody to really get away. In the dead of night. In the middle of the ocean.

There were so many things he had left to do. He promised his father. He still needed to find his mother. He had just found a new goddamn happiness and a crew he loved and for fuck's sake, he wasn't ready for it to end. And as his skin burns red with salt, as his lungs fill with black water and as his body screams from the immense pressure and the lack of air and the fear of dying, he throws out a prayer to anybody and anything that can hear him: _Help me. I’ll do anything. I don’t want to die yet._

And just as his eyes begin to close, he can almost swear that out of the corner of his blurry eyes, he can see a massive, massive dark shape rising out of the depths of the sea, and a strange crescent of orange that slowly grows into one enormous, sun-like sphere of burning light, with a smooth, elongated black slit down the center. 

Then the weight of the ocean is finally too much.

He wakes up on the shore. It’s impossible, he knows. He was hundreds and hundreds of miles from any land. He can feel rocks beneath him, and surely that impact should have killed him. But here he is, small pebbles in his hair and salt crusting his clothes. He blinks wearily, and sees a long, cloth-wrapped object lying in front of him. He reaches out his hand and brushes it with a finger. He pulls back sharply. It’s a sword, he realizes. That’s a sheath. But something in the back of his head, something that spoke directly to the heightened instincts of his half-orcish mind, tells him _it’s alright._ Careful of the rocks around him, he gets up. He picks up the sword and holds it in his lap. Weirdly, it’s comforting. It’s familiar. It speaks of—and it’s been a long time since Fjord felt this—home.

He looks out into the distance. He’s sitting on a boulder-strewn beach, but he’s not facing the sea. Instead, he finds himself confronted with an even more confusing sight. Surely, this could not be right. He hasn’t been back here in years. And yet, he recognizes that skyline. He stared at it his entire young life. He’s run across those rooftops and dangled from those balconies and scaled the stones of those towers.

So, with nowhere else to go and a strange new sword in his hand, Fjord stands up on gravelly beach, brushes his clothes off, and makes his way up the shore and back to Port Damali.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also just wanted to let you guys know that the pace might be a little slower from here on out, depending on how many backstory details we can squeeze out from the cast. I have a rough outline for Nott and Molly too, but Yasha is a blindspot vis a vis information. Thanks again so much for reading, and check me out at sailorfjord.tumblr.com!


	4. Beauregard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooo boy, here comes the longest chapter so far! This time featuring Disaster Lesbian™ and her tragic backstory. I might go back and make the other guys' sections longer too, since now I'm getting a feel for writing these. I think Mollymauk might be next, depends mostly on what happens in Episode 13. Meanwhile, enjoy Beau, and thanks for reading!

Beauregard is born in the early morning hours of the 18th of Brussendar, in the height of summer, to parents glowing with immense pride. Beauregard is hastily handed off to her nurse in the early morning hours of the 18th of Brussendar, in the height of summer, by parents who don’t even do their new daughter the kindness of hiding their disdain and disappointment. She gets whisked away, down the hall to a different room furnished in soft blues and filled with little wooden toys and plush animals. She is placed into a wooden crib. The nurse leaves. And in the lonely quiet, the newborn girl begins to cry.

\------------------

“No, Beau, dearest, stop fussing with your dress,” her mother scolds quietly. “This is a _very_ important tour, and you mustn’t behave this way. It would look absolutely terrible for your father if you caused a scene.”

“But, Mama,” Beau protests, “I hate wearing this dress. The lacy parts are itchy and the sleeves are too long.”

Her mother pats her on the head. “Don’t worry, darling, we’ll get you another one made.”

Beau pouts. “Mama, I don’t want _another_ dress. I don’t want _any_ dress.”

Her mother tuts quietly. “Don’t be silly, dear. Look, Mummy is wearing a dress, isn’t she? Don’t I look pretty? You look so pretty too.”

Beau considers her mother. Then her eyes wander a few yards away, where her father is proudly showing off the brewery’s newest oak barrels to group of tall, very important-looking men. They are dressed in long coats, with their trousers tucked into sturdy, but well-made and needlessly fashionable boots. 

“Why can’t I wear what Papa is wearing?” Beau asks. “He’s not got a dress on, so why do I have to wear one?”

Her mother laughs. It’s a soft, twinkling sound, like a little bell. Beau knows this laugh. It’s the _we’ve-got-company-and-my-child-is-talking-too-much_ laugh. Beau knows it well. 

“You can’t wear _trousers_ ,” her mother says, “you’re a girl. You could if you were a boy, but you’re not, are you?”

Beau knows the answer to that question. “No, Mama,” she says.

\------------------

Darien is a boy, and one of the most exciting people Beau knows. He’s eleven, two years older than she is. He’s the son of another winery owner, as renowned and as wealthy as Beau’s parents. The edges of their lands weave together easily enough, and he frequently slips away from his duties to go hang out with the rowdy girl next door. Together, they pester the workers and write cuss words in the dirt paths and chase each other through endless rows of gleaming purple grapes. During peak harvest season, one of their favorite things to do is steal the fattest grapes off the vines and meet in the woods between the properties to compare their loot. They sit together in one of the tallest trees and munch on fruit and talk of benign, childish things.

“I could beat you up,” Beau says between mouthfuls.

Darien considers the muddy hem of her dress, her rolled-up sleeves, the leaves in her hair. “Yeah,” he says, “You probably could.”

“Probably could?” Beau raises an eyebrow. 

“Definitely could,” he admits. “But I’m not that strong.”

From six feet up in the branches, Beau leans against the tree trunk. “That’s ok,” she says in a rare bit of open friendliness, “you’re good at other stuff. Like climbing trees and stealing things from your dad.”

Darien shoots her a grin. “You won’t believe this,” he says, “but I picked a lock yesterday!”

Beau’s eyes go wide. “No!” She exclaims. “Really? How did you do it?”

His grin broadens. “I can show you when we finish these grapes!” He lowers his voice conspiratorially, even though there’s nobody around for ages here. “I lifted a set of thieves’ tools from one of the sheds,” he says, “and I’m not really sure why they were there, but it was probably fine because nobody goes in there ever anyways. And I was messing around in there but then I knocked some stuff over on the top shelves and it hit the door and then the door locked and then I was like _oh, Pelor, I’m gonna die in here,_ but then I just shoved some of the hooks from the set into the lock and then it opened!” Darien takes a deep breath to refill his lungs. “And now I’m an expert rogue,” he concludes.

\------------------

The pair stand in front of the door. “It’s not locked,” says Beau. “It was just rusty. I think you probably just messed with the inside hard enough to unstick it.”

Darien gives her a reproachful look. “That’s basically lockpicking,” he says.

“Nuh-uh,” Beau says.

“Uh-huh,” he replies with scathing wit.

“Nuh- _uh_ ,” Beau retorts eloquently. 

“Uh- _huh_. It wouldn’t open before, and now it does.”

Beau considers this point. “Alright,” she says eventually, “I’ll give you that one. But it’s not lockpicking like _real thief_ would pick...lock.” 

Darien points a finger under her nose. “Then just you wait!” he declares. “I’ll learn how to be a real thief and then you can’t tell me what’s what anymore.” 

Beau grins. “Oh yeah? What if I do it first?” And she cuffs him over the head and scampers off, shouting about how real thieves could move quick as the wind. Darien gives chase, whooping loudly behind her.

\------------------

Beauregard stares out the window, and chews on the end of her quill. The clouds look quite fascinating today, and the fact that she even had that thought must be a testament to how godsdamn bored she is. Father and Mother are making her check the books again, and even though her tutors have praised her mathematical skills (“When she applies herself she really is quite good,” the one with the annoying mustache had said.), Beau really can’t be bothered to even try and be interested in numbers. Even though her parents have hinted numerous times that she should be stepping up and helping out more with the business, Beau doesn’t want to. It’s boring. She’d rather run around outside or pick grapes or do almost literally anything else.

She sighs and glances down at the page. _Only a few rows left._

\------------------

“You spoke out of line again, Beauregard! That tour was incredibly important, and your comments disrupted my guests and made me look like a fool!”

“I’m sorry, father, I’m sorry! I won’t do it again.”

“If you do, you know what the punishments are.”

She does.

\------------------

So when Beau accidentally lets slip to her parents that her clothes are always filthy because she spends all her free time traipsing through the woods with the neighbor’s son, she expects the worst. There are grave punishments for doing boy things. For being disruptive. For being ungrateful and _ruining the lovely things we give you and being a bad, bad girl._

What she doesn’t expect is for Mother to scoop her up in a big hug and cry tears of joy. What she doesn’t expect is the flicker of impressed surprise that flits across her father’s usually stoic face. 

“Oh, my darling, this is wonderful news!” Her mother gushes. “And you’re _sure_ this is young Darien? You’re sure he likes to spend time with you?”

Beau makes a face that neither of her parents notice. “Mama, of course I’m sure it’s Darien. And, uh, yeah.”

“Oh, this will be absolutely fantastic for your father. Won’t it, dear?” She asks with a glance at her husband.

He gives the slightest nod. “How old are you, Beauregard?”

Beau looks down at the ground. “Twelve, Papa.” 

“You are rather young,” he muses, “but this opportunity…”

Beau’s mother nods enthusiastically. 

Her father nods again, this time more firmly. Then his frown returns and he says, firmly, “But pleased as I am with this match, you two cannot keep spending time the way you currently are. No more of this running through the forests and getting into trouble. You are a young woman, and should compose yourself as such.” 

Beau can feel the weight of his gaze. She doesn’t like it.

\------------------

“I can’t believe our parents are making us do this,” Darien groans. We’ve _never_ had to be fancy around each other before.”

Beau grumbles, misery dripping off her slumped shoulders. “This sucks ass,” she says. Swear words are still rather new to her, but she has a good feeling about them. She makes a mental note to ask the servants for some more. 

Meanwhile, Darien risks a glance over at where his mother and father are talking with Beau’s at the other end of the garden. They’re seated around a polished wooden tea-table and passing each other the weird little sandwiches that grownups like to eat. Between bites, they discuss (probably) the best way to ruin their kids’ lives. A maid hovering behind them, striking empty cups with the teapot like an eagle diving for heron. To the side a butler stands, staring at pink lilies, artfully pretending not to be waiting for commands while also waiting around for commands. Birds chirp in the flowering trees above them. A few bees hum softly in the background. 

Darien turns back to Beau, whose scowl has somehow gotten even deeper. “Hey,” he says, “do you think they’re doing this ‘cause they want us to…you know? Get married and stuff?”

Beau sighs and gives a shrug. “That’s what they were talking about yesterday.”

Their eyes meet.

“No,” they say simultaneously. 

They both nod in acknowledgement of a good decision and slide further down on the bench. Beau’s dress, a horrific, daffodil-colored poofy nightmare, prevents her from achieving optimal slouch. Darien fidgets with his coat. They are basically in hell.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Beau hops to her feet. “Okay, I’m done now. Let’s go.”

A slow grin spreads across Darien’s face. “The birch tree by the river?” 

They wait for just the right moment. And while the parents are preoccupied with one another and the maid is busy fielding refills and the butler is distracted by a particularly unruly-looking begonia, they slip away, adults none the wiser.

\------------------

Beauregard stares out her window. Her cheeks are sticky from dry tears, and the sniffling hasn’t quite stopped yet. Her face is still a bit puffy, and her eyes are bloodshot. But the worst relic from the last half-hour are the words, which she are trying desperately to bury so far into her subconscious that nothing would ever be able to bring them out again.

_Horrible, useless child, how could you be so ungrateful—This was an incredible opportunity and your selfishness has ruined it—His parents were appalled at your behavior—How could you just run away like that and wreck everything—We raised you better—_

_—Oh, for Pelor’s sake, stop crying, you’re nothing but an embarrassment. Get out of here, Beauregard. Get out and stay in your room while your Father and I try to fix the damage you’ve caused._

Beau hits her forehead against the glass.

\------------------

“Father is sending me away,” says Darien from outside the open library window. “I snuck over here so I could tell you, but I have to go back before he notices. He’s kind of still super pissed about our disappearing act.”

“Yeah,” Beau mutters. “My parents are too. Who would’ve thought, huh?”

Darien smirks. “The sticks up their asses are pretty lodged in there.”

There is a brief silence. Then, “Where to?”

“It’s an academy in Rexxentrum, if you can believe it. Apparently lots of young nobles and wealthy hoity toity assholes go there to learn…whatever it is they learn.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Father says it’s until I can ‘behave properly enough to live up to my duties,’ which I think is a load of shit.”

“How long do you think that’ll take you?”

“…I’m not sure. But I think he wants me to be there for like…a long time. A really long time.”

“Will you come back?”

The answer is instantaneous. “Yes,” Darien says. “I’m his heir. He said so himself.”

“Alright then,” Beau closes the ledger she was working in. “I’ll probably be here when that happens. It’s not like my parents are going to do anything with me.”

Darien leans through the window and reaches around Beau’s shoulders rather clumsily. “You’re my best friend,” he says.

“You’re my brother, dumbass.” Darien doesn’t argue. And the next day, he is gone.

\------------------

“Papa,” Beau asks tentatively at dinner, “am I your heir?”

He continues to skim the documents in his hands. “No,” he says.

\------------------

Beau continues to work the books for the brewery. It seems like the times she quietly retreats to the library to manage ledgers are the only times her parents don’t make their displeasure with her quite as overt.

 _At least you’re good for something,_ goes unsaid. 

She also keeps up with her studies, though she really would rather not. History is about boring dead guys fighting in stupid wars because they do stupid things. Geography doesn’t matter; it’s not like you can do anything about it if you don’t like it, and it’s not like you need to keep an eye on it in case it runs away. She finds marginal interest in the stories of the gods from religious studies, but could do without the constant, underlying our gods are superior and nonbelievers are scum. Math has always just been math, and she couldn’t care less about the politics of the Empire. 

The only things she really enjoys reading are the tales of adventure she finds in the dustier sections of the library. She steals them from the shelves and hoards them in her room. At night, she’ll pull them out and reread her favorite parts by candlelight. She absolutely loves _The Mountain Range of Gold_ , and almost cheered out loud when the protagonist resurfaced in Part 2. She delights in gratuitous descriptions of kick-ass fight scenes, and sometimes tries to reenact them with that a particularly kind onlooker might call “enthusiasm.” 

There are also many, _many_ romance scenes. Beau is unprepared for the sheet amount of…canoodling that some of these adventurers get up to. She’s rather annoyed by the unfortunate tendency of the broad-shouldered, handsome male characters (heroes) to sweep the beautiful, helpless female characters (love interests) off their feet. Beau could do without ever reading about a Sir Diggory and his seemingly endless muscles again. Usually she’s also disgusted by the way the women are portrayed, as gorgeous damsels with hearts of gold and not enough clothing and apparently very soft skin. 

Though sometimes, a small part of her is absolutely delighted. Beau isn’t sure what to make of that yet. Yet.

\------------------

When she isn’t raiding the libraries or being forced to learn things, Beau continues to run through in the vineyard and the nearby forests. Doing so does feel a bit empty without Darien around, and the loneliness would never go away, but the sharp edges of solitude had smoothed down into soft corners over time. Besides, Beau has to do _something_ , and stir craziness does not sit well with her.

So rather than mope around all day in the manor, which is probably what her parents would want, Beau climbs trees and wades through streams and throws pebbles (unmaliciously) at squirrels. She also has the clothing for it now. A while back, in a stroke of genius, she asked the one of the more slightly-built workers for a pair of trousers, a linen shirt, and a hefty pair of worker’s boots. Despite her worst fears of being reported to her mother, the boy didn’t seem to mind. And after a while of hanging around their quarters and volunteering to do chores and refusing to bugger off, the servants move from tolerating her presence to inviting her for drinks (non-alcoholic) and stories. She hears about daring adventurers from ages past, brilliant and bloody battles, and learns quite about the various criminal elements of the empire. One day, an older worker teaches her how to _really_ pick a lock, which comes in handy on the nights she stays out too late and has to break into her own home. They help her touch up her disguise, which allows her to hang around outdoors when her parents expect her to be in the house doing ladylike things. They let her hide her outfit with their belongings, and even occasionally pass along other hand-me-downs to her. 

She has never been so free.

\------------------

“You’ve gotten rather fit, haven’t you, Beauregard?” asks the dressmaker as she measures Beau for another terrible ensemble. “Just look at you!”

Beau considers herself in the mirror. “I suppose so?”

“I can’t imagine how,” says the dressmaker, “with you being home and learning to be a proper lady all the time.” The comment is pointed. It indicates that at any point Beau’s mother can be brought into the room and also shown how rather fit Beau has gotten. 

Beau sighs. “I promise I’ll stop squirming,” she says.

“Don’t worry, dear, it’s refreshing. Too many young ladies these days look like a light breeze would blow them over.”

\------------------

Beau can now successfully hang upside-down on a tree branch by her knees. She considers this one of the greatest achievements of her young life.

\------------------

“Her tutors are quite impressed by her abilities,” her mother says to the guests in the drawing room. “Aren’t they, dear?”

“Yes, Mother,” says Beau. Her hands are folded in her lap. This dress is blue, at least, but that only helps so much.

The other ladies are speaking. They sound like birds tittering ceaselessly outside a bedroom window in the early morning. 

“Not too impressed, I would hope?” says one, louder than the rest. Beau doesn’t like her. She’s got hair that’s obviously going grey, though the woman tries to hide it under an ostentatious hat. There’s also a mole growing on the edge of her nose. It’s got more personality than she does.

“A husband wouldn’t want his lady to be too clever, after all,” says the terrible woman. “Can’t have her getting too controlling of his household.”

Beau’s mother laughs. It’s another tinkling laugh, the _I’m-richer-than-you-and-we-both-know-it-so-don’t-you-dare-lecture-me_ laugh. “Of course, Deannie, she’s properly educated. She just excels at what she’s taught. Why, she was almost betrothed to young Darien. It’s just that his father decided the boy should be sent to school before committing to anything.”

The women sip their tea in a manner that indicates how impressed they are. Beau wants to pick up the tea cart and use it to smash the window open.

\------------------

Beau receives another letter from Darien. She crumples it up shortly after reading it. Then, immediately filled with regret, she picks it up and tries to smooth it out best as she can. Her fingers trace over the words.

_Beau,_

_I’m sorry to say this but I won’t be coming back. Father is having me stay in Rexxentrum to be the face of his company in the capital. I know I promised I’d see you again, but there’s nothing I can do. Believe me, I tried to fight him about this. But he said that with him in Kamordah already, there’s no need for me to be at home. He wants me to be a businessman. You and I both know he won’t change his mind. You’re my sister, Beau, and I’m so sorry—_

She puts the letter in a drawer and goes to bed.

\------------------

There’s a new maid at the manor.

Her name is Mariel. She has dark, curly hair and freckles across her nose. She moves like a storm through the Quarters, cussing loudly and joking cheerfully, and old Reddick tells Beau she’s from one of the rowdier coastal cities. She’s just shy of nineteen, and Beau is thrilled to finally meet a girl her own age. But Mariel makes Beau nervous, and she isn’t sure why. Maybe it’s her unrestrained spirit. Maybe it’s her wide smile and mischievous eyes. 

Maybe it’s the loud, echoing laugh that dances through the halls when she watches Beau—who had scaled the manor to the third-floor and tripped over the windowsill as she tried to sneak in—spill onto the floor and land on her ass.

“Ow.” Beau rubs her head. She looks up at Mariel. “I’m not a thief,” she says.

Mariel snickers, and Beau is struck by complete lack of decorum in the action. “Yeah, a _real_ thief wouldn’t have fallen like that.”

Beau scowls. “I mean I’m not a thief ‘cause I live here.” 

Mariel leans against her broom. “Yeah, right. Mister, you’re wearing worker’s clothes two sizes too big for you, and you’ve got dirt all across your face. And haven’t I seen you around the Quarters before? I could have sworn you were playing cards with Reddick yesterday.”

Beau freezes, and swears inwardly. Of course, someone new would think she was one of the servants breaking into the Boss’s house for some gold. Over the years, the help had welcomed the muddy-faced and loud young lady of the house into their fold, and largely ignored her antics. She had gotten so used to making a fool of herself and breaking rules in front of everybody except her parents that she’d forgotten how unacceptable her behavior really is. She sighs, and figures there’s no good way out of this situation. 

The truth, then.

She pulls her hair out of its messy bun and does her best to wipe the dirt (fresh from the forest) off of her face. She tugs at the sides of her pants, trying to flare them out like a dress. “I’m Beauregard,” she says. “Please don’t tell my parents?”

The broom falls over, and Mariel almost does too. She hastily picks it up and tries to curtsy with a four-foot wooden stick in her hands, which only makes her almost drop the broom again. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” she says, and when she rises her face goes red, “wait, fuck, I mean…oh shoot, dammit. I’m sorry, milady.” 

Beau tries to suppress the smirk threatening to split her face. “Nobody warned you that I do this sometimes?” 

Mariel swears under her breath and curtsies again. “No, ma’am.”

Beau fails, and when Mariel resurfaces from the curtsy, she is met with an absolutely shit-eating grin from Beau. “I kind of hang around the Quarters and run around in the woods a lot. I think everyone thinks it’s funny, and I always loose a lot of money when we play cards, so nobody really cares. Except my parents. Who can’t know,” she adds. 

Mariel stares at Beau, and bursts into laughter again. After a while, she wipes the tears from the corners of her eyes. “Wow, when I heard that the daughter of the house was a troublemaker, I thought they meant you were shitty to the servants or something. I didn’t think they meant you dressed up in boy’s clothes and were a really bad gambler.

Beau rubs the back of her neck sheepishly. “Well—”

Footsteps echo down the hall. Then, “I’m sorry, Madam, but I really don’t think it was a servant.”

There’s a scoff. “It had better not be. Honestly, I pay you all well enough to keep quiet and keep out of trouble. If I find out it’s one of you making noise this late at night I’m docking all of your pay.”

It’s her mother. Beau goes rigid.

Mariel does not. She quickly grabs Beau by the wrist and yanks her down the hallway and into an empty guest bedroom. She carefully clicks the lock shut, then squeezes Beau and herself against a wardrobe just beyond the doorframe so their shadows don’t peek under the door.

Footsteps go past, along with an angry tirade by Beau’s mother. 

They breathe a sigh of relief. Then Beau notices how the other girl has both her arms around her to keep her still, how she’s still holding her wrist and how well her body fits into Beau’s. How soft her hair is, and the way her chest rises when—

“See something interesting, Milady?” teases Mariel. Beau’s face colors. Her head snaps upwards and their eyes meet.

\------------------

“You’re nearly twenty, now. And though our previous efforts failed thanks to your actions, new arrangements can always be made. It’s high time we planned for the future of this business, and it’s not as if you’re completely undesirable. Marcus would be a nice match, I should think.”

\------------------

Beau carefully helps Mariel into the branches, then swings herself up the trunk and lands next to her.

“Nice of Syra to cover for you today,” she says.

“Personally, I think Syra is on to us, and I think she’s doing her best to keep us together.”

Beau pulls out a book. “Perfect! That means we can keep going. Now, where were we?” she asks.

Mariel grins. “I think Sir Diggory was just about to compliment Lucianne’s tits in a much-too flowery manner.”

Beau snickers. “Oh, you’ll love this part.”

\------------------

She leans against the pillow, breathing heavily. “Mariel?” She says.

“Yes, Beau?”

There’s a pause. 

“I...I love you.”

\------------------

They let their guard down. It’s a mistake.

\------------------

“Your father and I have decided to send you to Zadash,” says Beau’s mother. “You’ve left us in a very…difficult position, and it was extremely hard for us to find a place for you. But Archivist Xenoth has agreed to teach you, and we think learning from the monks will be a positive influence on you.”

“Why?” asks Beau. “Because monks do what they’re told and don’t have sex?”

Her mother’s face turns a scandalized crimson, and her fists clench. “Beauregard, you have caused enough trouble for this family. You’ve always behaved extremely poorly, and you’ve never listened to your father and I when we know what’s best for you. You destroyed your own chances at a future with Darien, and got him sent away by his parents. You continue to mess about with the servants when you _should_ be mingling with the rest of dignified society. And now you allow yourself to get tangled with this _common girl_ , and—”

“Don’t you talk about her like that,” Beau says through clenched teeth.

“—and you get _caught_ and you’ve scandalized the entire family—”

“Nobody needs to know! And why does it matter, anyway? Why does it matter what I do?”

“—you have _duties_ to carry on this legacy your father has worked so hard to create for you—”

“I didn’t ask for it! I didn’t want any stupid legacy! This would be _fine_ if I were a boy!”

“— _shut up!_ You are not a boy, as both of us are well aware, and if you were one then everything would be so much easier for us! But you’re a girl, even if you seem incapable of acting like one, and we _cannot_ have you soiling this family by continuing to stay here and being the way you are. If you aren’t going to do what we wanted you to all along, you’re going to go to the Cobalt Reserve and you’re going to become a monk, and maybe you’ll learn some respect and come home, or maybe you’ll just stay there and keep studying. But whatever happens, you’re going to become _respectable_ , and you’re not going to ruin our name. Is that clear?”

Beau is biting her lip. There are tears running down her face. Her mother is shaking with anger.

_“Is that clear?”_

“Yes.”

\------------------

It could have been worse, Beau figures. At least they gave her some neat robes. At least they let her swear. At least they taught her how to fight. And she was _really_ good at that last bit. But all this crap about “preparing her mind” and “preparing her soul” and “being the truth” learning about patience and sorting shelves and reading books is…is all crap. Beau doesn’t give a fuck. So when she packs a bag and slips on her uniform and cracks open the window and slides onto the balcony, she moves quietly. And she doesn’t look back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than halfway there! Thanks again so much for reading! Comments and Kudos keep me going, or come chat with me at sailorfjord.tumblr.com!


	5. Mollymauk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Fresh off the backstory presses of episode 14, we have the somewhat canon story of the origins of our favorite purple icon with the highest word count in a chapter yet. 
> 
> You might be able to guess this already, but [WARNING] for suffocation and for being buried alive. It's pretty rough and if you want to keep reading after that, skip the first two paragraphs!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

He wakes up, and immediately is crushed under the weight of the earth. His lungs are on fire. He can only see darkness.

Panic races through his veins. Now he’s gasping for air that’s barely there in rapid, horrible gulps of nothing that shake his ribcage and poison his body with each desperate grab. Something else takes control of his limbs, and he finds himself thrashing wildly in his linen prison, fighting against the immeasurable pressure surrounding him and he pushes himself upwards, claws upwards, upwards, ever upwards, blood racing and propelling him on, until the terror begins to fade and the dirt doesn’t seem to end and the emptiness in his lungs finally takes over and—

When he wakes up again, he’s sitting on grass. His head feels like it’s full of cotton and his vision is ridiculously blurry but at least he can breathe here. It’s warmer. There’s no unbearable pressure. And, he realizes as his eyes begin focus, he is perched just on the edge of a deep, narrow pit in the earth. There is dirt everywhere, scattered wildly across the ground, and clumped on a strange red fabric draped over his legs. It has patterns dancing across it. Right now, he can’t figure out what they mean. 

He isn’t sure how he got here. He isn’t sure where _here_ is. And then, as panic starts to creep up his spine and probe back into his mind, he realizes he’s not sure _who_ he is, either.

\----------------------

He doesn’t know how long he spends in this forest. He drinks from streams and stumbles through the underbrush. Days pass in a foggy haze. The sun comes and goes a few times, and every night he wraps the fabric around his body and curls into the roots of nearby oaks. There are stars on it. Stars and moons and little triangles. There are many colors. He never sleeps well.

Eventually, he passes out at the edge of the woods from exhaustion and starvation. There is the faint impression of a dirt path, and the shape of clouds overhead, blurry from the light. Something in the back of his mind laughs from the irony. He climbed out of the ground and was alive. Now he will be dead above it.

\----------------------

Then there’s a face hovering above him. “Oh, shit!” It says, though the sound is strangely muffled. It leans away and turns towards something in the distance. “He’s alive! Guys, he’s alive!”

He blinks a few times and tries to move his head. There’s a sudden force against his chest. He starts to panic but the voice comes back, softer this time, and he realizes the weight is from someone’s hand. “Hang on, friend,” it says, “we’ll help you. Just…just hang on, alright?”

He does. There’s nothing else he can do.

\----------------------

Third time’s the charm. He’s awake again, and this time lying on something rather soft. There’s a strange smell in the air, like burning herbs. Like…sage. Mixed with lavender, and a hint of—

An intense headache racks his brain as fleeting memories surge through it. Impressions of striking matches and dried leaves and leather cords tying bundles together, and then in an instant the pain subsides and the images are gone. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and looks around.

He’s on a cot. There is indeed a little silver incense pot sitting on a table beside him with a tiny, steady stream of smoke winding out of it. There are stacks of books scattered around the place, piled on the wooden chair across from him and rising from the floor like columns of parchment. The walls around him are a muted brown, though it’s hard to tell behind all the richly-colored cloths that decorate almost every inch of it. The whole room has a strange shape to it; it’s rather small, and starts to curve as it forms the ceiling, giving him the impression that he’s lying down in a very narrow semicircle.

The door opens, and it’s a human. Balding. Maybe late 30s. Had been lost for some time, and though now has a purpose, still exudes a soft air of melancholy—

—he shakes his head. He isn’t sure where the thought came from.

The human does not seem to notice. Or care. Instead, he shoves the books off the chair, drags it towards him, flips it around, and takes a seat by his side.

“How’re you feeling?” There’s a friendly smile.

He opens his mouth to respond. He isn’t sure what will come out of it, but he certainly didn’t expect to say, “Empty.” His voice creaks. The sound is foreign.

The human takes this in stride. “Oh, hungry, huh? You must’ve been, passed out on the road like that. Here, c’mon, I’ll take you to where everybody’s eating dinner. Can you walk?”

He probably can. He takes the human’s outstretched hand and follows him across the room. When the door swings open, he is surprised to find that instead of leading further into a building, there is an evening sky awaiting him. A breeze blows in.

The shock must have been pretty obvious, because his companion turns around and shoots him a grin. “You’re in my wagon, right now. The table’s set up outside, and you can meet the rest of the group there. Don’t worry if it’s a bit overwhelming, we’re a lot to take in at once.”

He nods slowly. 

“Oh, and I’m Desmond, by the way. Desmond Moondrop. Fool by trade and bard, self-made. Welcome to the Fletching and Moondrop Traveling Carnival of Curiosities.”

\----------------------

He is seated near the end of the table, next to Desmond and across from a dark-skinned woman with rather fiery hair. Next to her is a half-orc with a massive handlebar mustache. Then two identical halfling girls. And a very tall, very strong-looking woman with extremely pale skin and dark hair that fades to white at the ends. And a little dwarf girl that can’t be more than ten. And a massive lizard-frog-thing that hulks just behind her. And, back at the end of the table seated at the head, is an older, lanky half-elf. He is wearing a top hat.

“…and that’s Ornna, and that one is Bosun—or Bo if you like—and those are the Knot Sisters, Mona and Yuli, and that’s Yasha, we think, and that’s little Toya, give the nice man a wave, that’s a dear, and that one is Kylre, and my name is Gustav. Gustav Fletchling.”

There is a chorus of _hellos_ , muffled somewhat by the various forkfuls of food being shoveled down by the troupe, but hearty and welcoming just the same. 

One of them, Bosun, he thinks, leans over a pot of stew and extends a hand. “Nice to meet you…er…?”

He looks at the hand. Then looks around at everybody else, who are staring with polite and completely uncamouflaged curiosity. He takes the hand, and then downs his flagon and stares into it, as if searching for the answer.

“Ah…your name, dear?” That was Ornna.

He shakes his head. 

He feels a shift as Desmond turns to him. “You don’t want to tell us? I mean, it’s alright if you don’t, we understand discretion and all that but—”

One of the Knot Sisters speaks. He doesn’t know which one. “Actually,” she says, “I think he’s trying to say that he doesn’t _have_ a name.”

Gustav leans in. “ _Really_?” 

He nods. There’s still a thin layer of dampness at the bottom of his flagon. He wonders if he can get to it.

There’s a brief stretch of silence. Then, a hand pats him on the shoulder. “That’s alright, friend. Why don’t we all just think of one for you? We’re a circus, we’re creative. Would you be alright with that?”

He nods again. This time it’s a bit desperate. Through the fuzz clouding his mind, one sharp thought says, _A name is good. A name is how to begin._

\----------------------

“Ilnar.”

“Gustav, does he _look_ like an Ilnar to you?”

“No, sorry.”

“How about Gerald?”

“That’s bloody awful.”

“What’s that bird…that one that flies a lot…?”

“Lavender Thunder.”

_“Absolutely not.”_

“It’s on the tip of my tongue. It’s this bird, it’s massive, it flies over the ocean.”

“Hofthic.”

“What the _hell_.”

“I like the name Theras. It has a good ring to it.”

“It’s huge. It’s got a fourteen-foot wingspan. The sound is great, I promise, I’ve just got to remember it…”

“The Purple Dream.”

“Bosun, what the fuck, the poor guy is half-dead he does not need this.”

“Horny.”

"I will kill you in your sleep."

“Ah! I remember! It’s called a—”

\----------------------

They settle on the name Mollymauk Tealeaf. The Knot Sisters come up with the last bit, following the reasoning that Tealeaf is a common enough last name that weirdly seems to suit him.

A soft, scratching voices pipes up from the end of the table. “Molly,” Toya adds, “for short.”

They refill Molly’s flagon, and make sure he eats twice as much as he physically can. Most of him is still too blurry to react to this gesture, but that sane, clear bit is filled with gratitude. He nods his thanks and hopes that it’s enough. It’s all he can do, right now. They seem to understand.

After dinner there is music. Standing before the bonfire, Desmond produces a violin and Molly watches with amazement as it floats into the air and begins to pluck out a melody by itself. The tune is cheerful, and once the notes start picking up, the troupe bursts into raucous song. Bo’s voice is off-key and deep, where Ornna’s is rough but high. Gustav’s is needly and loving. The Knot sisters harmonize. Yasha’s is quiet, almost an afterthought, but lovely in its own right. Kylre doesn’t sing so much as rumble along. Desmond sounds almost like a stringed instrument himself. And Toya, little wispy Toya, sings with a glowing energy and bright, strong voice that is incredibly, absolutely radiant. 

Molly does not sing. But, amidst the warmth of the fire and the sounds of the spirited choir around him, for the first time in his short, dizzying life, he feels something rather like peace.

\----------------------

“Now, Molly,” Gustav says, “we’re absolutely delighted to let you stay. But we need to know if you can help around, or maybe do an act, or something. Does that sound agreeable?”

Molly nods.

“Great. Now, Yasha does a lot of setup before the shows. Plus she’s rather new as well, and doesn’t like talking too much either, so you two might be able to get along?”

Molly shrugs, in a _sure-if-you-think-that’s-good_ sort of way. 

“Wonderful. You can both take the same wagon too, then, that’ll save some trouble. Now, perhaps you’d also be interested in the pre-show parade? Any time we hit a new town we like to try and spread word of the fact that we’re here. And your rather…unique appearance would definitely help with that. Is that okay?”

Molly nods again. 

“Is there anything you think you could do while you’re in the procession? Like…maybe you could juggle or perhaps play an instrument or something?”

Another shrug. It’s an open-ended question, a sort of _I don’t know, but I can try._

\----------------------

After a while, Bo stops laughing. “It’s just…it’s just…I know you’re trying your best, friend, I’m sorry. I guess we didn’t think it through very well, eh?”

Molly tries to untangle the silk scarves from his horns. They do not cooperate. He shoots Bo a glare.

“Sorry, sorry, maybe we should stick with juggling balls for now. You seemed coordinated enough with that. Maybe we can put some sequins on those, make ‘em more eye-catching.”

Gustav nods. “And, you know, we’ve got all these glass swords lying around. Maybe you could wear a pair. No offense, but it would really play well into the whole…devil-blood thing. But if it’s something you wouldn’t want to do, that’s absolutely alright.”

Molly considers the proposal. Having a weapon at his side just feels right. Gustav brings him a pair of cheap scimitars, and he straps them to his waist.

\----------------------

“I’m Yasha,” says Yasha even though they already met last night. “I’m new,” she adds, even though Molly already knows this.

He holds out his hand. She takes it.

She looks him up and down. “Will you be strong enough to carry all the shit to the tent?”

He shrugs.

“Good enough,” says Yasha.

\----------------------

He isn’t sure how, but after a week and a half with the carnival, he settles into a strange sort of normalcy. As normal as it gets when Ornna occasionally sets things on fire and there are sometimes floating instruments and once in a while the Knot sisters get stuck and there’s a giant lizard-man perpetually taking up the rear, but it’s a normal that Molly welcomes. It’s a normal, he realizes, that he absolutely cherishes. And nobody seems to mind that he never speaks and that he has horns curling out of his head and that he doesn’t really have an act and that he’s still dressed in somewhat dirt-covered linens and smudged trousers and that maybe, maybe he’s beginning to smell.

\----------------------

Actually, they do mind that last bit.

“And once you’re done there,” calls Desmond from the riverbank, “swing by my wagon, alright? I’ve got a surprise for you.”

\----------------------

He’s back to the bed in the corner. Except this time, he’s sitting upright and though still confused, is significantly less confused than before. Desmond spins around, and it’s the most excited Molly has ever seen the man.

He holds up a flash of red fabric. Molly blinks a few times with surprise. It’s the strange wrapping that had been covering him when he crawled out of the earth. It had been his blanket those days in the woods. He must have left it in Desmond’s wagon and forgotten about it. But there’s something different about its shape, now.

“I hope it’s alright,” says Desmond, “but since you didn’t seem to want it back I thought this would be okay? You’ve been running around these last few days wearing nothing but the clothes you were found in, and I figured it was probably time for an upgrade. And it was already shredded in some places and dirty in others but it must’ve been important the way it was wrapped all around you so…” 

Desmond tugs gently at the sleeves and smooths down the tails. “I made you a coat. I hope you like it?”

He does. He absolutely does.

\----------------------

He’s worried, at first, about the crowds. All the people around, brushing up against him and staring at him and gawking at his horns and they’re going to call him names and shout and those voices—

He takes a deep breath. What does he know about what crowds will do? He’s only ever met the circus, and they’re just great. 

Even so, Ornna notices his trepidation. “Don’t you worry, Molly,” she says. “The people are just here to have a good time. And if they want to cause trouble?” She gives him a wry smirk. “Then we’ll give them trouble. Don’t you worry.”

Strangely, though they make their livelihood entertaining audiences, audiences themselves don’t really matter as much. Sure, he loves it when they gasp when they should gasp and laugh when they should laugh and cry when they should cry, but outside the tents? Behind the curtains and within the wagons? They’re just faces in a crowd. Sure, sometimes one will approach with a compliment or ask for directions or slide an extra few copper in just for fun, but they aren’t the ones Molly is concerned about. They aren’t the ones he’s promised himself to protect. They aren’t his family.

\----------------------

He learns how to juggle scarves, eventually. He finishes the routine and after Bo is done clapping, he chucks them all at the half-orc and gives him a lopsided grin.

\----------------------

He and Yasha spend a lot of time in companionable silence, moving crates and lighting torches and putting up flags. Sometimes the two of them stand outside the entrance together, watching crowds go by. Her…herness is enough to make people think twice, and the cacophonous color display of his coat, his swishing tail, and his large, curling horns are usually enough to startle troublemakers into going away.

Yasha always has her arms crossed a certain way, and her sword slung in a manner that suggests a sort of casual power. He tries to copy her stance one night. It’s the most laughter he’s ever gotten from a person before.

\----------------------

After dinner there is music. Standing before the bonfire, Desmond produces his violin like he does every night, and it floats into the air and spins out a new tune. Once it begins gaining speed, the troupe leap in with exuberance. Toya’s voice is the loudest and loveliest of all. And under this chorus of warm and happy performers, Molly finds himself humming along with his own quiet song.

\----------------------

There’s a small sniffling just at the edge of his hearing. Yasha is out tonight…Yasha-ing, and so in the silence of solitude Molly notices the new sound. It’s drifting out the open window from the wagon next door. That is where Kylre and Toya sleep. Molly shrugs on his jacket and steps into the night.

Toya looks up when the door creaks open, and hastily tries to wipe away the tears. She watches as Molly’s face, and the ends of his horns, peek through the door. This is his way of asking permission. 

“…come in?” she tries.

He does, approaching like one would a startled deer. He sits down at the edge of her bed and offers her a handkerchief. 

The two of them, and Yasha when she’s around, are the least talkative in a group of extremely talkative people. Molly’s always felt a strange sort of kinship with the little dwarf girl.

“I’m sorry if I woke you up,” says Toya, and Molly shakes his head. He offers her a hand, which she takes after a moment’s consideration. It’s warm. 

“It’s just…” Toya mumbles, “it’s just that Kylre left to go get something to eat, he said, and that he’d be back really soon. But I’m scared. I don’t like being alone.”

Molly slides closer to her, and starts patting her on the back.

“I was alone for a very long time. I was alone, and when I talked the other kids on the street got scared of me, or they laughed at me and hit me, and there was nobody around I could go to. I was alone for so long, Molly, and I just—”

“Toya?”

Her head jerks up. Her eyes are round with confusion and wet with old tears. 

“You’re not alone, anymore.” The feeling of air running through his throat this way feels completely alien. Still, he forges on. “We’re not alone, anymore. Right?”

She wipes at her eyes. “Right,” she says. Then she squeezes herself into Molly’s chest and begins to cry again. For a moment, he’s terrified that he’s done something wrong. But then, as his ears begin to focus, he realizes that between sniffles, Toya is laughing.

\----------------------

Sometimes, he will see something that sends his mind down a spiral of unintelligible thoughts. Sometimes the image of a certain creature elicits thoughts of _that's how you bring it down, that's what it's weak to, that's what it's strong against, use a crossbow, not a sword._ Sometimes the clouds look a certain way and it makes his chest hurt. Occasionally, when he stares at the red eye on his palm, a strange voice creeps into his ear and calls him by a name he can almost hear. He does his very best to stamp it down.

\----------------------

"I like him," says Desmond. "He's nice enough, and he does everything he's told. Plus he's got a wicked sense of humor."

Ornna nods. "Just the other day he swiped Bosun's coin purse and the idiot didn't even notice for 12 hours."

Bosun frowns, without much malice. "You're one to talk, Ornna. Remember what he did to your chair before you sat down?"

As they bicker, Mona shrugs and says, "I just wish he would talk to us."

"I feel like there's so much about him that we don't know," Yuli adds.

From the end of the table, a soft voice pipes up. "He talks to _me_ ," it says.

All eyes are instantly on Toya.

\----------------------

Sometimes even the weight of a blanket is too much. Molly has to bolt from the wagon and run through the grass and remind himself that he can move as much as he wants to. That the air is weightless. That he is free.

\----------------------

Molly likes to watch Yasha write in her journal. He probably won’t ever ask what’s in it, but something about the sight of this massive woman taking the time each night to scrawl in the day’s events is rather amusing. And soothing.

One night, she looks up to meet his gaze. Before he can look away sheepishly, she holds up a hand and says, “You mutter in your sleep.”

Molly gives her a questioning glance.

“You say the word empty over and over, sometimes. It doesn’t bother me, but…you know.”

Silence.

“If you want to…maybe talk…?”

Silence.

“Kord, that was stupid. Sorry, just forget it—”

“Thank you,” says Molly. “I’m here if you want to talk too.”

Yasha blinks a few times in rapid succession. “Oh. Fuck,” she says.

\----------------------

Its been almost a year. And then, one night at dinner, Molly takes a few deep breaths, steels himself, and claps his hands. A surprised silence falls over the table.

“I would like to introduce myself, if that’s alright?”

The entire group, minus Toya and Yasha, look remarkably taken aback. Desmond’s eyes are wide with surprise, and the Knot Sisters glance back at one another in confusion.

Molly stands up on the bench so that he stretches above the others. His tail swishes nervously. Then he drops into a deep stage bow. When he resurfaces, he flashes them all a sheepish smile. “Mollymauk Tealeaf,” he says. “A pleasure to meet all of you lovely people. I’m sorry it’s taken this long.”

Amid the cheers and laughter, Bo slings him into a friendly headlock, which isn’t easy with the horns. “Don’t you worry,” he grins, “we would have waited another ten months just for you, Mollymauk Tealeaf.”

\----------------------

After dinner there is music. Outlined against the bonfire, Desmond yanks out his violin and this time he takes the helm, dancing around the troupe and laughing. Everybody dives in tonight, roaring with the melody, throwing their mugs towards the sky. And Mollymauk, riding the excitement of a fresh start finally kicking in, soars above the rest on wings of song.

“And the mooooooon, in your eyes, leaves my heart full of light!”

\----------------------

Life on the road is never easy. Sometimes it’s the weather, sometimes a wheel breaks, sometimes a town doesn’t want rabble moving through its streets.

Sometimes it’s bandits. 

Ornna is slashing at the attackers with her metal fans as Yasha swings her massive great sword in a clear arc around her body. Desmond fires off lightning, _lightning_ of all things, with vocal commands. Bo has his fists buried deep in a leather-clad man’s chest while Gustav, the sisters, and Toya take cover behind Kylre’s massive angry form. But there are nearly twenty bandits, and only five troupers in fighting shape. 

Molly’s hands go to the cheap scimitars around his waist. Later, he won’t know why. Later, he’ll stare at the swords and puzzle over his own fingers. But now, right now as a bandit gets much too close to Gustav, he tears into his wrist with his pointed teeth and smears his blood against his sword.

The air around the blade suddenly freezes. Ice shoots through the metal and he points it at the nearest bandit and in a language he did not know he spoke says, _Your bones will break beneath me and your blood will stain the earth!_

He charges into the fray.

\----------------------

“So…that happened,” says Gustav as they collected the bandits’ weapons to sell in the next town. “Care to elaborate?”

Molly stares down at the scimitar, now damp with melted ice and blood. “Gustav, you trust me, right?”

“Sure. You’ve been here months and as far as I’m aware never tried to kill any of us with some crazy ice.”

“Then please, believe me when I say I have no fucking idea.”

\----------------------

“It’s a new song I heard,” Desmond shrugs.

Ornna scoffs, and in her lap Toya asks, “Can you uncover my ears now?”

“No, dear, earmuffs still. I’m not done shouting at Desmond yet.”

“What?”

“Ornna, please, it was just harmless fun. And she probably didn’t understand any of what I said.”

“I don’t care if she understood it or not! _The Ruby of the Sea is the best lay ever?_ Are you kidding me? How could you think that was appropriate to sing around a child?!”

“Ornna, please—”

Molly snickers into his mug. “I think we should sing it again.”

He and Desmond wait a while before they slink back into camp.

\----------------------

One night, while Yasha’s out again, in the privacy of the wagon Molly holds his hands out.

“And…bleed. Go…blood! Start…bleeding!”

Nothing happens. And then, after a few tries of this, something does. He presses a cloth against his palm and waits for it to end.

\----------------------

The human woman looks closely at the parchment in Molly’s hands.

“That’s going to take a lot of ink,” she says.”

“He knows,” says Yuli.

“That’s the idea,” says Mona.

“Make me gorgeous,” says Molly. “Well, more gorgeous than I already am.”

\----------------------

During their travels, in a small town somewhere in the southern reaches of Wildemount, Mollymauk stumbles across a thin book. It’s plain with no words on the cover, but when he flips it open he realizes that it’s a catalogue of deities. Empire-approved and otherwise. It takes a bit of reading to get there, but he especially likes the Moonweaver.

_Seize your own destiny by pursuing your passions. Let the shadows protect you from the burning light of fanatical good and the absolute darkness of evil. Walk unbridled and untethered, finding and forging new memories and experiences._

The deal is sealed when he finds out that she’s also the protector of evening trysts.

\----------------------

Bo watches the blades spinning in the air. “I’ve gotta admit,” he says, “you’ve really gotten good at this juggling thing.”

Molly flashes a wide grin. “It’s a pretty sharp act, isn’t it?”

Bo instantly gets up and walks back into his wagon.

Molly catches the scimitars and shouts after him. “Come on! That one was great! I’ve been holding this sense of humor back for too long, Bosun! Just you wait, there’s more to come!

\----------------------

He watches an older woman deal out the cards.

“You’re seeking your past, and you’re close to your destiny,” she says. “You do not trust the people you lie with, and you keep your eyes trained for betrayal at every moment. Your woman is faithful to you, hold her close. And beware the sands of fate, for yours is not a happy one.”

She gives him an apologetic look. “Sorry, dear. Looks like the cards aren’t in your favor.”

Molly considers them for a moment. “That was absolute horseshite,” he says with a smile. “Any idea where I can get myself a deck?”

\----------------------

Toya traces the feathers on his face with her finger. “I like these new tattoos much better than the old ones,” she says. “They’re a lot less creepy.”

\----------------------

__

_The Fletching and Moondrop Traveling Carnival of Curiosities_

_Come one, come all, for a night to remember! See terrifying beasts and women of fire, listen to our tale of danger, and triumph, and song, enter our tent for a once in a lifetime experience!_

_Or, for those looking for a bit of fun, stop by before the show for juggling, fortunes told, and music for all ages!_

_No weapons, No admittance to the elderly or infirm._

\----------------------

Molly still has no idea what the symbols on his coat mean. He doesn't know what the markings on his hand and arm and neck mean. He doesn't know why he can do what he can with his blood, and he doesn't know why he woke up buried beneath the earth.

What he does know, is this: 

His name is Mollymauk Tealeaf. He can juggle anything you throw at him. He belongs to the traveling circus championed by Gustav Fletching. He can read fortunes for a certain amount of "fortune" and a certain amount of "read." Sometimes he gets little flashes of other information. He worships the Moonweaver. He knows a lot about incense. He can charm anybody that comes his way. He loves Toya with all his heart, and also Yasha and also Bosun and Desmond and Mona and Yuli and Gustav and Ornna and even Kylre, though perhaps not as much. His name is Mollymauk Tealeaf, and he's a proud member of the circus. Everything that matters to him is from the last two years, and the last two years only. His name is Mollymauk Tealeaf. His name is Mollymauk Tealeaf.

\----------------------

“Trostenweald, you said?”

Ornna nods. “It’s a pretty up-and-coming place, apparently. Lots of ale there, too.”

Molly lifts the reins with a cheeky smile. “Shall we, then?” 

Ornna snorts. “Lead the way, Mollymauk. And don’t fuck up, alright? Last time we let you try guiding the horses you ran us into a ditch.”

“That was one time! Just once! I promise, I’ll do my best.”

“That’s what we’re all afraid of,” Yasha mutters.

“Fuck you,” says Molly. 

“No thank you,” says Yasha.

“Fair enough,” says Molly. 

And then he flicks the reins, and the carnival begins its journey to the north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Next up is probably Nott, and FYI i might be going back to make Jester's chapter much, much longer, so if you're interested check back there in a week or so. Thanks again!!


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